


In His Room

by kiddypool



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, yep this is therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8862133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiddypool/pseuds/kiddypool
Summary: Two narcissists look at each other...





	

It's become a very satisfying routine.  
The more they tread this path, the easier it is to bring Will back in that space. It's not such a struggle anymore.  
But still as thrilling.

Hannibal is watching Will moving around the room. Will is always in movement, restless, fidgetting. He's turning his back , then showing his profile.  
He's looking everywhere but at Hannibal. Hannibal has been unsettling him by talking about the latest uncomfortable experience (or is it a trauma?). 

Will has been in the room of the girl, closed the door, intimate room, intimate space,  
she was under the bed, in her undershirt no less,  
she tried to cut him, he tried to cut her, intimate, so intimate, they ended up covered in each other's blood.  
Uncomfortably oedipian for an autistic. Risky, dangerous visuals.  
Will gesticulates to keep the images at bay. Shakes his head.

So Hannibal keeps prodding. Throws images and personal feedback. Forces him to relieve the scene.  
(the discussion must have become unbearably heated for you, hannibal reflects :  
reminiscing slashed cheeks that allows one's access inside the mouth of a girl, the inner workings of her wet tongue, the exposed indecent molars)

Hannibal is feeling a glorious elation, like he's chasing something fluffy and innocent, a white doe.  
Hunting is a stance he's perfectly comfortable in, after all.  
Will darts an oblique eye to him. ticks his jaw. moves a hand. Parries, deflects.  
He's hyperactive, nearly flushed with activity. Higher heart rate, his scent getting stronger, a hint of sweat.  
Will pauses, stammers. 

Desperate to try and collect himself, he ends up sitting in the leather chair, hunched shoulders, connecting each of 10 fingers in front of him,  
an attempt at getting back his concentration.  
So this is when hannibal smoothly slithers in the opposite chair, right in front of him.  
Next time he speaks, he's looking him square in the eyes. No evasion possible now. 

He's corraled the lamb, worn him down and now for the estocade.  
And in a beautiful moment of inevitability, Will raises his head, powerless, and their eyes connect.  
Hannibal thinks he won't ever tire of this thrill. Can't help himself, can't get enough of it. Sweet like poison.  
His face doesn't show any of the victory, but he's feeling mellow and proud of Will. Good dog. Come here. Look at me. Let me give you your treat.

It's magical, a suspension in time, for the micro second of a flash : his forts crumble, Will finally allows himself to see.  
Will is so lost that he doesnt even blink. Pleasure distands his pupils.  
Because Will sees, he mirrors, this is what he does.  
So what happens when he sees someone entirely thinking about him? about him killing, precisely.  
Hannibal is so bent on Will's tune, in this instant, its like Will were looking at himself in an infinite hall of mental mirrors.  
it's very masturbatory, in a way.  
Certainly autoerotic, hannibal reflects. And shivers in pleasure in turn, to have caught the undivided attention of the empath. His own reward in this.

Hannibal's gaze envelops him like a cocoon, like a hand squeezing his dick protectively.  
Hannibal creates for Will this wrapper of warmth, where he can relieve safely the memory of the bloody assault,  
a comfortable place to see oneself in one's entirety,  
free of any neurotic jugement, because Hannibal doesnt have a shred of jugement to reflect on. 

Will is finally in a place where he's getting the reassurance he neeeds, can feel guilt-free pleasure, the pleasure to finally finally let go,  
allow himself to drop the act of normalcy, replay what he really imagined back in that room,  
It's a place to enjoy peacefuly the gore of what happened, delicious play by play, intimate, intimate,  
and also what could have happened, his intention to take the knife out of her hand,  
turn it back on her, swiftly slash her raised palms, open her neck, feel the hot spray, open her neck like Abigail's father would have. bathe in it.  
For the micro mental blink of a micro second, Will can allow himself to debase himself, be the pig that he wants to be,  
in the pungent stall of his base instincts, instead of the asceptic white angel doe he really really isn't, is he.  
Will shivers as from being jacked off.

Hannibal takes one second to revel in the blown gaze, open lip, slack jaw,  
the infinite potential mutual mirrorring of each other that happens more and more in between the both of them these days.  
Something in Hannibal stirs at the thought. A pang of something pooling hot in his guts.  
But he allows himself to indulge one second only.  
Because this moment, apart from being all this, is also the perfect moment to do what Hannibal does best.  
Cut, plant, suggest, drive. Manipulate. Fourrage throught the open window of Will's eyes, in the mind now laid bare,  
now is the perfect time to cut surgically, slash, make a change, plant a suggestion.  
"the panic wasnt because it felt so bad, it was because you were so afraid to take pleasure in it, wasn't it ?"  
Hunt. chase. track. Exhaust. Approach. kill. 

Only a neurotic would associate this penetration of Will's mind with ideas of trust and betrayal, the banale routine of guilt.  
No. for the thing that is Hannibal, this is mastery, the perfect show of skill, the demonstration of excellence in his craft, flirt.

The pupils of Will retract significantly, his look becomes dreamy. its' like watching an injection of LSD make it's way through his brain,  
watch the mind give way to the suggestion in slow motion.  
Will's eyes close in on the thought, like the grain of salt in an oyster that will later trigger a protective reaction, become a pearl.  
too late, thinks Hannibal, protect yourself all you want, this egg is now inside of you.  
i gave it to you. i planted it, i'll nurture it and watch it grow. 

Planting a seed in the evasive virgin mind of Will feels as erotic to Hannibal as rape, murder of a physical body. More. Much more exciting.  
Hannibal has rendered countless victims powerless, plunged his gloved hands and harvested whatever he wanted while they watched, impotent,  
but never felt so thrilled.

The conversation goes on but Hannibal doesnt lisen anymore, he's replaying the moment. 

Don't be afraid to let it go. I can feel it too. I m the same. I m deep inside of you. You're my creature, my equal, my bride. 

This will be the death of me, Hannibal thinks, and exhales imperceptibly.


End file.
